Property Of A Lady
by DetectiveMinerva
Summary: A month after M's death, James Bond is nearly going insane from grief. To help him deal with the sorrow, Gareth Mallory, the new M, gives him a new mission and assigns him a partner: Lady Margaret Mansfield, sister of the late M. Together, Bond and Lady Maggie work to uncover a conspiracy that threatens the UK... and learn what it really means to be the property of a lady. REUPLOAD
1. Prologue: A Bulldog of a Problem

Reuploaded at last! I first wrote this story - my first novel-length tale - after _Skyfall _was released in theaters. Needless to say, I was among the many who cried when M was killed, and I was not thrilled at their choice of replacement for Judi Dench. This was - and still is - my response, a vision of what could have been, based on the old rumor that Maggie Smith was going to be in a future James Bond film. I'm still hoping that will happen. I've given the story a rewrite, keeping most of the original material intact, but altering some past mistakes and changing a name or two to fit in with what is now current Bond canon.

Dedicated to my previous readers who loved this the first time around, to all newcomers who will read this for the first time, and all Bond fans who are still loyal to Judi Dench, this is for you!

* * *

Blood.

The old cliché held that it was thicker than water. It was the source of life when flowing through one's veins, and the source of death when leached from one's body. It could boil in one instant and run deathly cold in the next, a person could be murdered in cold blood, and one could also be after another's blood… just as James Bond was right now.

Pelting hell-for-leather down the back streets of London, Walther PPK drawn and sweat pouring down his face, Bond was in hot, reckless pursuit of the tosspot who had stolen something he held dear… something very precious. And the tosspot in question was barreling ahead of him with the speed of bloody Superman, legs pumping for all he was worth – which didn't amount to much, if you asked Bond. Breaking into the flat of an MI6 double-0 was stupid enough, but stealing a precious artifact from said agent's flat and running into the agent on the way out? No wonder the world was going to seed; even petty criminals were getting dumber by the day.

The situation _was _idiotic; it really was. Bond had just stepped out to pick up his order from the Chinese takeaway down the street and returned home, beef and broccoli and eggrolls in hand, when his door swung open before he could even fish in his pocket for his keys. Tosser, as he was now calling the thief he was chasing, had frozen for a split second, stared at Bond with wide eyes, and then bolted for his life, carrying an all-too-familiar box in his arms. Dinner be hanged, Bond had thrown down his bag of Chinese food and hurtled after him, racketing down the stairwell and sliding down the rail when it seemed like the idiot was in danger of getting away. Now, he was running around London like a madman, on the tail of a nobody whose last "job" had probably been picking pockets on the Tube during rush hour. _This is so bloody ridiculous, _Bond fumed to himself as he continued to thunder along, dodging people and cars as he went. _Chasing down a twenty-something kid. __If this pillock were a real thief, he wouldn't have stared at me like a codfish and then bolted. He would've thought fast and… oh, NOW he pulls it on me!_

No sooner had they whipped round a corner and into a dank alley than Tosser pulled out a pistol – a peashooter compared to Bond's calibrated Walther – and fired off two rounds at Bond, who dived forward in a somersault to avoid the bullets. Pulling himself out of the somersault and right back onto his feet, Bond took aim and fired, missing Tosser by six inches as he suddenly zigzagged. "Are you trying to kill me?" the idiot shouted over his shoulder, never stopping for a moment.

_Are you serious?! _"Well, I'm not trying to friend you on Facebook!" Bond bellowed back; that only made Tosser run even harder. In that instant, Bond knew he was going to have to switch tactics; picking up the pace to match Tosser's would have only succeeded in getting him so winded he could no longer keep up the chase. His keen eyes roving over Tosser's escaping form, Bond quickly decided that the thief no longer needed a leg to stand on. Raising his Walther one more time, Bond aimed true and fired; Tosser let out a howl and collapsed to the ground, blood bursting from his right thigh. He barely had time to crawl away before Bond leaped over a dustbin that had been knocked over in the chase, sprinted the remaining length and tackled him back down, pinning him to the pavement.

The two of them rolled off down the alley in a vicious tangle of arms and legs, aiming kicks and punches in every vulnerable spot possible and leaving a trail of blood behind them from Tosser's leg wound. Before long, however, it appeared that there would be more blood joining what was already on the ground – Bond was sporting a bloody nose and a cut above his right eye, and Tosser's face was well on its way to looking like a Rorshach test done in red ink. Tosser was a strong kid with a nasty right hook, but Bond was taller, stronger, and had the advantage of MI6 training and a license to kill, which he was seriously considering putting to good use if the little whelp beneath him didn't surrender the item he had stolen. "Give it back!" Bond snarled, one of his hands clenched on Tosser's chin and the other behind his head, as though he were going to snap the kid's neck.

Tosser growled, trying to wrestle his way out of Bond's vise-like grip. "Go to hell!"

Bond grabbed a handful of the kid's lank hair and stuck his face just inches away from his foe's. "I'm already there." Without warning, he pulled back his right fist and delivered Tosser a roundhouse punch to the side of his head, knocking him out cold. The boy's body went limp as unconsciousness set in, and Bond, inhaling great gulps of air, finally stood up and wiped the blood from his face. Hearing the sirens of police cars in the distance, Bond quickly surveyed the alley for... yes, there it was, lying eight feet away from Tosser – the box stolen from his flat. Picking the box up and cradling it in the crook of his arm, Bond pulled the lid off and breathed a sigh of relief as he lifted out a small china bulldog with the Union Jack spread out over its back... his last gift from M. "Thank God," he murmured as the sirens came closer and car doors slammed behind him, heralding the arrival of the police. "She'd never forgive me if I lost you."


	2. Chapter 1: War of the Words

In the prologue, Bond rescued M's bulldog from a thief. In this chapter, he returns to MI6 to get a dressing-down from Gareth Mallory - and gets the shock of his life in the process.

* * *

Few things remained constant in a universe that was forever changing, but there were a few concrete precedents that never changed; rules that were punishable by death. You didn't sell secrets to enemies foreign and domestic. You didn't trust that beautiful woman slinking toward you. And you didn't steal from James Bond.

Alone in his flat at eight o'clock in the morning, Bond was two steps shy of mainlining the black coffee he was drinking. After he'd chased down Tosser the previous night and given his statement to the police, he had returned home, checked the rest of the flat to ensure that nothing else had been stolen, and lain in bed wide awake for the remainder of the night should anybody else make the foolish mistake of breaking in. If they did, they would have gotten a cold greeting from his Walther, but nothing happened, and Bond was now pouring cup after cup of coffee down his throat, praying that the caffeine would keep him from collapsing on his feet. The last thing he needed at the moment was Mr. Sandman to bring him a dream.

The television was on, the smell of bacon hung in the air from his breakfast, and Bond's keen blue eyes, so sharp when they observed a situation and so icy cold when he was angry, were surprisingly soft as they gazed at the little bulldog sitting on the table before him. It was funny. He'd never liked the knickknack that had graced M's desk for years, but now, after she'd bequeathed it to him in her will… he'd actually grown fond of the little bugger. _An old dog for an old dog, _he thought, stroking the bulldog's cool china form with his index finger. _We were a fine pair, M, you and I. Two old bulldogs with the safety of the United Kingdom on our shoulders, unwilling to let go once we sank our teeth into a problem. _Bond sighed and threw back the remainder of the coffee in his cup. _Was this your way of saying "I love you"? I guess I'll never know._

Bond's head suddenly jerked up as he heard a muffled _thump _just outside his door. Although the sound had startled him, he knew he had nothing to fear, unless his paper boy was outside in the corridor waiting to bludgeon him with the morning _Independent. _Hauling himself out of his recliner in the lounge, Bond groaned with the effort. Even with the three cups of coffee he'd gulped down, his arms and legs felt like deadweights and his entire body, lean, muscular, and fit though it was, ached with exhaustion – from running, from lack of sleep, and from a bone-deep sadness that had plagued him for nearly a month. Twisting his upper body to crack his stiff back, Bond paused for a moment and cast another look at the bulldog, whom he had affectionately named Jack. "I miss you," he said aloud, tenderness in his voice. Anyone who happened to peek in at that moment would have thought he was speaking to the figurine, but Bond knew exactly who he was really talking to, and he _did _miss her – more than anyone knew. Straightening himself up and willing his legs to move, Bond ambled to the door, pulled it open, and knelt to pick up the paper. As soon as he did, he knew that he was in for a day of hell at MI6, for lo and behold, there was his face glaring back at him from the front page.

_Well, what do you know. I'm a bloody celebrity. _Shaking his head, Bond shook the folded paper open to reveal not only his photo but the screaming headline: DOGGED PURSUIT: MI6 AGENT SHOOTS THIEF WHO STOLE PRICELESS CHINA BULLDOG.

Bloody journalists. They stretched the truth no matter how reputable the newspaper was. Jack was a Royal Doulton figurine – expensive, certainly, but priceless? Hardly in that respect… but priceless to Bond? Yes, because of the woman it had once belonged to. All the same, he knew that this headline was going to raise the dander of quite a few of MI6's Powers That Be, particularly a certain former Intelligence & Security Committee chief.

As if on cue, Bond's mobile rang. _And so it begins, _he thought, grudgingly answering the call from MI6's chief of staff. "Calling to congratulate me, Tanner?" he asked sardonically.

"Don't make jokes about this, 007," Bill Tanner warned over the line. "You're already in enough trouble as it is."

"With Himself? You're right; I deserve to be spanked."

"Don't let him hear you, or he might take you up on the offer and then some. He was already hot to begin with thanks to the news report last night, but seeing the _Independent_'s headline this morning has made him angrier than a hippo with a hernia."

"You've been watching _The Lion King _again, haven't you?" Bond asked, rolling his eyes.

Tanner sighed. "It's my boys' favorite, but they're driving me insane watching it all hours of the day. Last night, my wife smacked me awake because I was singing 'Hakuna Matata' in my sleep."

Bond chuckled dryly. "It could've been worse. You could have been dozing on the job and You-Know-Who could have heard you singing 'I Just Can't Wait To Be King.' You would've been out before you could say 'Bob's your uncle,' and then you'd be singing a different tune."

"Yeah. 'O Happy Day.'" Bond could picture Tanner's wry smile on the other end of the line at the former's laughter. "Anyway, Cliffs Notes version, Himself would like to see you. Immediately."

Now it was Bond's turn to sigh. "All right, but I'm not doing it for him."

Tanner's reply was surprisingly soft. "I know. I'm not keeping this job for him either. I just feel I owe her, you know?"

Bond was quiet for a moment. He'd always liked Tanner, but they were such polar opposites that it amazed him. He was the unattached loose cannon, wild, headstrong, and unpredictable; Tanner was a family man, practical, thoughtful, and organized. Yet, during their years together at MI6, despite their vastly different fields, Bond and Tanner had become good friends with more in common than they realized. They both possessed the same dry, self-deprecating sense of humor, unwavering loyalty to queen and country, and, Bond now realized, a profound respect for the woman they had both called M. Their devotion to her had never faltered for an instant and never would, not even in death. They _both _owed her, big time. "Yeah," he finally answered, his voice more tender than he'd intended it to be. "I know." An understanding silence passed between them before Bond said "See you there" and terminated the connection. He'd get there, all right. In his own sweet time, he'd get there. Meanwhile, he was going to take a long, hot shower, shave, and throw on some decent clothes. Devil if he was going to give Himself the satisfaction of seeing him walking into work looking like the hell he was living in.

* * *

Some things were best kept underground, and the new MI6 headquarters were no exception to the old rule. Sequestered deep under the streets of London, the British Secret Service was working even harder than ever to keep their beloved United Kingdom safe, and just a short month ago, they had... although they'd paid the ultimate price with the loss of their chief. But duty lacked the patience for mourning, and in the wake of M's death, everyone had followed the old credo "Keep calm and carry on," although the former part of that phrase seemed an anathema to Bond. As he strode through the bank of underground offices, _calm _didn't fit his demeanor quite as much as _cold _did – although there was one person who could temporarily melt the ice that now covered his heart.

Bond pushed open the door leading to the chief's headquarters and looked around for... yes, there she was. Little girls may have been made of sugar, spice, and everything nice, but mix together brass, class, and a whole lot of sass, and the grand result was Eve Moneypenny. Tall and slender, with smooth mocha skin and huge eyes the color of rich chocolate, Moneypenny was, to quote an oldie from Bond's childhood, a long cool woman in a black dress. _Better than a devil in a blue dress, _Bond thought wryly as he smiled at the beautiful woman seated at the desk in the corner. "Good morning, Miss Moneypenny."

Moneypenny looked up from her Vaio laptop. "I wish I could reciprocate, James," she replied, her voice serious despite her smile. "You're a wanted man at the moment."

"By you?" Bond grinned, leaning over Moneypenny's desk.

Moneypenny's eyes took on a cynical glitter. "You should be so lucky." She nodded toward the office door across from her. "He wants you in his office and sitting in front of his desk, and then he probably wants your head on a silver platter."

"I didn't expect to be teacher's pet, but don't you think that's a little extreme?"

"Well, in all fairness, James, you haven't exactly done anything to vindicate yourself to him. The only reason he's keeping you is because he actually likes your devotion to the service."

"And here I thought he liked me for my scintillating wit."

"No, James…" Moneypenny leaned forward, a mischievous smile playing about her lips. "That's why I like you."

The two of them held each other's gaze for a moment before the intercom on Moneypenny's desk clicked on, cueing a rude interruption. "Moneypenny, quit drooling before we have to build an ark. 007, get in here NOW."

Bond stiffened at the male voice barking over the comlink. Like it or not, he had to reply. With an agitated sigh, he pressed the intercom button and replied, "Right away, sir." _Pompous twit. _With a wink to Moneypenny, he slid off the desk and entered the office before him, ready to face the so-called pompous twit. "How's the arm?"

Gareth Mallory, newly appointed head of MI6, was parked behind a mahogany desk glaring daggers at Bond. A strapping man of six feet, with the dark hair and blue eyes of his Irish ancestors, he looked every bit the bureaucrat he was, dressed in a navy blue suit, pale blue shirt, and red tie; his injured arm was still bound in a sling. He may have been the new boss, but Bond stubbornly refused to call him M. _You're not M. There's only one M, and you're not her. You'll _never _be her. _

"Let me put it this way, Bond. The second this sling comes off, I fully intend to give it plenty of exercise – by feeding you a long-overdue knuckle sandwich."

"Come now, sir, you know my favorite is ham."

Mallory scoffed. "Ham for a ham; how appropriate. You are absolutely amazing, Bond –"

"Finally, something we both agree on," Bond interrupted, relishing Mallory's filthy expression.

Mallory closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled deeply; clearly, he was trying to maintain the calm that was slipping through his fingers. "That is not what I mean. What's amazing is how you just saunter in here and ask me 'How's the arm' without so much as one trace of shame. You are an agent of Her Majesty's Secret Service, and you go swanning off after a nobody – a _boy, _Bond! A 22-year-old boy!"

"Who'd probably made his living picking pockets on the Tube and nicking valuables from every Tom, Dick, and Harry who looked like he had more than a bob or two to spare," Bond pointed out, having prepared in advance for the diatribe that was now being thrown at him. "He stole an object of great value from my flat; is it my fault he was stupid enough to run into me on the way out?"

"No, that's not your fault. Playing vigilante and garnering the attention of the British press is your fault. We were well on our way to rebuilding ourselves after Raoul Silva's reign of cyberterror, but thanks to you, we now look like a bunch of bloody incompetents who go after every tosspot that steals so much as a banana." Mallory sat back in a huff. "Bad enough I had to see it on the news last night, but to see your smiling face on the front page of the _Independent _beneath that wretched headline… 'Priceless china bulldog,' that's a laugh."

When Bond spoke, his voice was deadly quiet. "It's priceless to me, and with all due respect, sir, you bloody well ought to know why."

Something flickered behind Mallory's icy blue eyes. "I wouldn't have known you to be the sentimental type, Bond."

Bond met Mallory's eyes in an even stare. "Well, we never really know anyone, do we?"

"No, we don't. And I don't know you well enough to trust you alone again for a while… which brings me to the other reason why I've summoned you here."

"Because dressing me down wasn't enough?"

"Don't push it, 007. You're getting dressed down because you deserve it," Mallory said, sounding, to Bond's mind, like a school headmaster punishing a delinquent student. "You're running wild, and unless somebody puts a check on you, you're going to destroy yourself along with the rest of us."

His hackles raised at that last remark, Bond leaned forward and bored his eyes into Mallory's. "What are you going to do to me, _sir_? Shackle a ball and chain on my ankle to hold me back?"

Mallory smiled coldly, his lips thinner than knife blades. "Something like that. I'm assigning you a partner, Bond."

If the entire city of London suddenly collapsed in on them at that moment, Bond could not have been more surprised. Mouth half-open in shock and his cerulean eyes flashing first with confusion and then with anger at this presumption, all he could do was stare at Mallory for a good minute; the tense silence that hung in the air between them was so thick one could have cut it with a machete. A partner. A _partner, _of all things! He'd had temporary partners before, of course, but it was a pre-established fact that Bond worked alone. A permanent partner had always been out of the question when he and M had worked together, probably because Bond truly had considered her to be his partner. They had frequently worked so closely together on missions that Bond felt better in tune with her than anybody else, and never more so than their last fateful mission at Skyfall. No, he couldn't have a permanent partner. If he had to go through heartache like that again, he'd shoot Mallory first and then shoot himself.

"A partner?" Bond asked once he'd found his voice.

"Yes, Bond, a partner. You know; the person who follows you around, assists you on covert government missions, and makes sure you toe the line as expected?" Mallory retorted, his voice laced with sarcasm.

Bond kept his hands clenched tightly together in his lap, willing himself not to slam them both on Mallory's desk. "I know what you mean. I don't need a partner; I work alone."

"Not anymore, you don't. Starting today, you're one half of a whole, and let's hope the woman I have in mind turns out to be the better half."

"A woman?" That caught Bond's attention, but for once, he was far from excited at the prospect. Rather, he was in a state of disbelief. "You're actually assigning me a female partner?"

"Don't get excited, Bond, unless you've suddenly developed a taste for women over 50. I thought an older woman might be able to keep your ego in check."

_An older woman _did_; fat lot you care. _"You're conveniently forgetting that I've worked with an older woman before, sir."

"Trust me, Bond, I haven't forgotten. And if you're smart, you'll accept this woman as your partner – if not for your sake, then for our former M's."

Bond narrowed his eyes. An expert poker player, he knew every single bluff, blind, and poker face in the book, enough to know when a person was hiding something – and right now, Mallory was hiding something, his authoritative mask a perfect poker face for his true motive. "You're being cryptic. What aren't you telling me?"

Were it not for his gunshot wound, Bond was certain that Mallory would have folded his arms at that moment. "More to the point, what aren't _you _asking _me_, Bond? It should be fairly obvious; what do you normally ask a person when you meet them?"

Bond felt like smacking Mallory's head at that point and yelling at him to cut the cryptic crap. "What's her name?" he deadpanned, his voice acidic enough to trump the former's sarcasm.

An annoying beat of silence passed. Mallory clearly thought this was dramatic effect; all Bond thought was that the chief was chewing the scenery. "Margaret," Mallory finally said with a slight smile. "Lady Margaret… Mansfield."

_Wham. _It was like somebody had walloped Bond in the stomach with a tire iron. _Mansfield? No, it can't be… she can't be…_

"Yes, Bond," Mallory said, as though he had read Bond's mind, that smug smile still etched onto his face. "She's the sister of our late M, Lady Olivia Mansfield."


End file.
